“You’ll go away somewhere for your health....  You ought to go for your health.  Will you take it?  Yes?  Nikolay Stepanovitch darling, yes?”

She looked greedily into my face and repeated:  “Yes, you will take it?”

“No, my dear, I won’t take it,” I said.  “Thank you.”

She turned her back upon me and bowed her head.  Probably I refused her in a tone which made further conversation about money impossible.

“Go home to bed,” I said.  “We will see each other tomorrow.”

“So you don’t consider me your friend?” she asked dejectedly.

“I don’t say that.  But your money would be no use to me now.”

“I beg your pardon...” she said, dropping her voice a whole octave.  “I understand you... to be indebted to a person like me... a retired actress....  But, good-bye....”

And she went away so quickly that I had not time even to say good-bye.

VI

I am in Harkov.

As it would be useless to contend against my present mood and, indeed, beyond my power, I have made up my mind that the last days of my life shall at least be irreproachable externally.  If I am unjust in regard to my wife and daughter, which I fully recognize, I will try and do as she wishes; since she wants me to go to Harkov, I go to Harkov.  Besides, I have become of late so indifferent to everything that it is really all the same to me where I go, to Harkov, or to Paris, or to Berditchev.

I arrived here at midday, and have put up at the hotel not far from the cathedral.  The train was jolting, there were draughts, and now I am sitting on my bed, holding my head and expecting tic douloureux.  I ought to have gone today to see some professors of my acquaintance, but I have neither strength nor inclination.

The old corridor attendant comes in and asks whether I have brought my bed-linen.  I detain him for five minutes, and put several questions to him about Gnekker, on whose account I have come here.  The attendant turns out to be a native of Harkov; he knows the town like the fingers of his hand, but does not remember any household of the surname of Gnekker.  I question him about the estate—­the same answer.

The clock in the corridor strikes one, then two, then three....  These last months in which I am waiting for death seem much longer than the whole of my life.  And I have never before been so ready to resign myself to the slowness of time as now.  In the old days, when one sat in the station and waited for a train, or presided in an examination-room, a quarter of an hour would seem an eternity.  Now I can sit all night on my bed without moving, and quite unconcernedly reflect that tomorrow will be followed by another night as long and colourless, and the day after tomorrow.

In the corridor it strikes five, six, seven....  It grows dark.